


and i never did forget

by grimmyneutron



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, and pining, and stubbornness, lots of grossness, so sorry for this i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimmyneutron/pseuds/grimmyneutron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eames wakes up alone, he laughs and laughs and laughs and books a one-way flight to Capetown.</p><p>Or alternatively, five times everything gets screwed up, and the one time Eames thinks they may have gotten it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i never did forget

**Author's Note:**

> Idk I love these two so much.
> 
> PS I'm a terrible writer
> 
> PPS this is unbeta-ed. so read at your own risk.

 

 

 **1.** Eames meets Arthur for the first time when he gets home from the longest day of his life. Can't trust architects for shit these days, apparently, and Eames hates pulling double-duty on a job. And of course, it's fucking pouring when he leaves the hotel and Eames is reminded why he spends most of his time elsewhere than his homeland. So he's just stepped into his London townhouse and shaken off his sopping wet coat when he sees a man sitting at his late father’s bloody baby grand, not actually playing, just letting his fingers ghost across the keys. He almost drops his briefcase but manages to reach for his glock instead.

“Look, mate,” He says. “The only way to get that thing out of here is with a crane."

“Eames, isn't it?” The burglar turns around, acting not the least bit startled, and Eames really hates talking business after a long work day. He assumes that's what the man wants because few petty thieves wear well-fitting Armani three-pieces while breaking and entering. Not to mention are handsome to boot. The man is tall, young with a slick mop of dark hair, all limbs and cheekbones; Eames' type to a T.

He smiles. “To whom do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Cobb, Dom Cobb.”

Eames laughs then, a big booming thing that makes the man jump, because he’s heard so much about the infamous Dominick Cobb, master of the dreamscape, the best extractor in the business, legendary in all sorts of circles, and he’s so _young_. 

“You can’t be serious,” Eames says as he wipes away a small tear. “Dom Cobb, a kid.”

Dom looks downright offended. He scowls and says, “I'm not a kid, and I’m not Cobb. I work for him. I was sent to request your service.”

“Ah,” Eames processes this new information. He can’t help himself as he stalks over to the piano. As he does, the guy stands up abruptly, the bench screeching against the hardwood. Eames’ grin goes practically Cheshire. When he’s finally all up in not-Cobb’s personal space, he asks, “What services might I offer?”

Not-Cobb’s neck flushes bright red and he clears his throat. “Cobb claims you’re the best forger around. I had my doubts, but...”

Eames fakes a pout and says, “Yes, well. Tell Cobb that if he wants to work with me he shouldn’t send his _doubtful_ errand boy to do his bidding.” He turns on his heel but not-Cobb catches his arm.

“Hey,” The guy is practically fuming as he grits out, “I am not his _errand boy_. I am his _point man_ , so _excuse me_ for doing my fucking job and wanting the best there is. So, are you, or _are you not_ , the best?”

Eames grins again, stepping close again so they're toe-to-toe . “What did you say your name was, darling?”

The point man scowls but doesn't back down. “I didn’t. It’s Arthur.”

“Mm,” Eames says, and he leans in, so close he can feel Arthur’s sharp exhale on his face. Their lips brush, Arthur makes a strangled somewhat disgusted noise, and Eames says, “When can I start?”

 

 

 **2.** Eames wins Arthur over after the first job. Professionally, that is. So he keeps working with them—Cobb, Cobb’s wife, and Arthur. It’s probably on their third job together that things get botched. They'd just been discovered when Mal gets shot in the forehead by the mark’s security. It’s really all downhill from there. Arthur goes and and gets his fucking leg shot off, and of course, Eames takes a bullet to the shoulder trying to pull the stupid point man out of the way. So it’s really just Cobb now.

"Well, shit," He says, staring at Arthur and Eames on the ground.

"Go," Arthur snaps, trying to get to his feet. "I can manage."

"Like hell," Eames grunts, shoving the point man back onto his arse on the cement floor.

Cobb looks between them and seems to come to a reluctant conclusion. "I can finish this, just buy me some time."

Eames grabs his AR-15 and winks, though it probably doesn’t look very confident because his mouth is set in a hard grimace and his shoulder is a torn up mess. But he still says, "'Will be a pleasure."

Cobb pulls a face and dashes off, Eames covering him. It is not, however, very easy to shoot an assault rifle with only one arm, and after a few minutes, Eames feels tears of pain sting his eyes and blur his vision.

Arthur somehow pulls himself to a wobbling stand and grabs Eames back by his jacket collar. "Give me the gun, Eames."

Eames scowls and swipes a bloody hand across his face. "No offense, darling, but fuck off."

Arthur's face contorts into a similar scowl as he says, "You can't even shoot. You're wasting ammo, and we need to make sure this gets done. You're not helping."

What happens next is something close to horrifying. Somehow, in a fit of childish pride, Arthur maneuvers himself between Eames and the garage door's opening and almost manages to pry the gun free as well, when two bullets plant themselves in his back. He stumbles forward, eyes wide, mouth open, still very much alive and feeling the pain, and Eames catches him as they fall.

Eames lands on his torn shoulder and the pain makes him see spots. Arthur is coughing blood and Cobb runs towards them, shouting something about a _complete fucking disaster_ , and the crescendo begins, echoing through the warehouse. Eames looks down at Arthur who’s gripping his hand desperately, and it’s all he can do when he says, "You buggering idiot," and kisses him as they fall back to consciousness.

 

 **3.** Arthur tries and tries and tries and so does Nash, because _it’s not your fault_ , Eames. But it is. It is entirely his fault. If he had only done more research, if he had noticed that the wife's eyes were just a little more hazel than blue, if he had only been more convincing, if he—if he had just done his job _right_.

If he had, Mal wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed and Arthur wouldn’t be calling up every contact he knows to find somebody, anybody who maybe has an answer, because surely this is protocol and someone knows what's going on. And it’s on the tip of all their tongues,  isn't it, the L word that they haven’t dared breathe. Eames’ mouth feels thick with it, and _it is entirely his fault_.

Cobb is a wreck with good fucking reason. Eames doesn’t even attempt to defend himself when his boss storms up to him with wild eyes.

“You had one fucking job!” Cobb yells, slamming Eames into the waiting room wall.

Eames knows.

“How could you have missed it?! _How could you_?!”

Eames is just as confused.

“Dom,” Arthur says after Cobb has screamed for a while. “Dom, _enough_.”

But it’s not enough, is it. And Eames understands, but his apology gets stuck in his throat because he could be sorry for the rest of his life, and that's not what will wake up Mal. So Cobb yells and yells and yells until his voice goes hoarse, and Eames tries to understand. 

They end up getting kicked out of the hospital waiting room for their ruckus, and Cobb storms off to his wife’s room.

Eames stumbles outside praying his Camels aren't smashed to hell because his hands won’t stop shaking, and of course Arthur follows him. He asks for a cigarette, and Eames laughs, a pathetic raspy sound that Arthur politely ignores.

“You don’t smoke, darling.”

Arthur’s chin juts out in an adorably defiant way. “I do sometimes.”

“Well, all right then, black lungs for the both of us,” He lights two and hands one to Arthur. If Arthur notices Eames’ unsteady hands, he’s saint enough not to mention it.

“Cheers.”

They stand in silence, and Eames has nearly quelled his trembling when Arthur says finally says it.

“It’s not your—”

“Darling, if you are even going to say what I think you are, I will shove this cigarette so far down your throat—”

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur says, dropping his own half-smoked cigarette on the ground. He gets in Eames’ space, and it’s the way that Arthur said his name that breaks him. He drops his own cigarette and grabs Arthur’s face and kisses him so hard and so long his lungs ache, and Arthur takes it. He clutches the lapels of Eames’ jacket and holds them steady, even after Eames' shoulders have stopped shaking and his cheeks are dry.

“It’s not your fault,” He says a while later when they're propped up against the wall and they've smoked through all the Camels.

Eames thinks about shooting him but is frankly too exhausted.

 

 **4.** Eames notices that somewhere between the first job and the umpteenth, he and Arthur have become a sort of team. Architects and chemists come and go like clockwork, occasionally Nash joins up again, but in the end it's always Arthur and Eames.

After a particularly successful job in Amsterdam, they find a dimly-lit bar in the red light district to blow their paychecks on booze. Arthur gets wonderfully trashed, and Eames makes sure to enjoy every second of it. The point man's hair is falling loose of its tightly-gelled hold, he's loosened his tie, and the top button of his shirt is undone. Eames swears Arthur is going to ruin him one day. 

“Bet I can make your night, love,” He says after their twelfth shot. He means it.

“Doubt it,” Arthur snorts, but he’s smiling. “Did anyone ever tell you your pick-up lines are terrible?”

“Yes, in fact, multitudes of women,” Eames says just to watch Arthur’s neck turn red.

“My jealousy knows no bounds,” Arthur says, but Eames can tell his sarcasm is lacking in effort.

Eames grins cheekily and before he can argue, Arthur leans over and presses his lips to Eames'.

The kiss is wet, stale-tasting, and their lips don't quite line up right. Arthur is a little too drunk, but Eames can't help grabbing fistfuls of the point man’s shirt because _Arthur is kissing him_ and nothing else even seems  _relevant_.

" _Darling_ ," He says against Arthur's lips. He tastes like mint and scotch and cigarettes and Eames _loves it_.

“Let’s get out of here,” Arthur slurs.

 _Christ_ , Eames almost falls over, because they're in fucking Amsterdam and they’re wasted and Arthur actually just said _let’s get out of here._

Eames leads him back to their hotel, and Arthur barely manages to get his key in the door when Eames jumps him. They stumble back towards the bed that Eames thought was too firm but now seems perfect, all the while Arthur is kissing him  _everywhere_.

For a split second though, Arthur seems to panic and Eames watches him fumble around in his pocket until his fingers touch his totem. Eames knows the feeling but at this point he’s beyond caring about reality because Arthur starts kissing him again.

He unzips Arthur's designer slacks and smiles as he licks his way down the point man's chest, to his stomach, and finally to his cock. He grins and says, “If you could manage to relax,  _darling_...”

He doesn't finish and he doesn't need to, really, because Arthur is more than relaxed by the time Eames is finished with him. They fall back onto the damp sheets in a sweaty tangle of limbs, and Arthur mentions something about showering. Instead, Eames drapes an arm over the point man's waist and falls asleep with Arthur's breath warm against his chest.

When Eames wakes up alone, he laughs and laughs and laughs and books a one-way flight to Capetown.

 

 

 **5.** Eames shouldn't be as angry as he is when he steps off the plane in LA. He should be ecstatic that inception actually pulled off, ecstatic that he's not lost in Limbo or east-fucking-Jesus-land. He is alive, he is relatively unscathed, and he's rich beyond all sense, bless. He should be _blithe_.

Instead, he is furious.

Because the point man is the stupidest bloody prick he's ever met, because he won't be able to sleep for weeks after this job, and not just because he's terrified of dreaming. Eames is furious because Arthur doesn't give a damn about anybody but himself, and that's such shit. He glares at Arthur's stupid head all the way to the baggage claim, his fingers flexing for a gun.

"Guess this is the end of the line," Arthur says after Ariadne and Yusuf have disappeared. He stands next to Eames, close enough that their shoulders brush, and the forger would usually jump at the chance to make the point man squirm and stutter and loosen his hold on that stupid facade. Under the present circumstances, however, Eames steps to the left and promptly ignores him.

Arthur doesn't try to make conversation again. They stare at the carousel and wait far too long for their luggage, and when they step into the muggy LA heat and Arthur suggests they share a cab, Eames explodes.

"Oh, _hell_ , darling," He growls. "I'm not going anywhere with you. Should’ve pissed off with your little girlfriend when you had the chance."

Arthur is clearly thrown, makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat that sounds a lot like dread, but quickly pulls himself together. He shifts into his defensive stance, eyes narrowed, shoulders ramrod straight, fists clenched. It's actually really fucking adorable, the way he suits up for an argument without realizing it. "Is that what this is about?" He sounds disgusted (but also very, very smug. Eames could kill him, really).

"Ariadne?" Arthur pries. "The kiss?"

Suddenly Eames feels very unsure about it all. Perhaps he made it all up, perhaps it's all in his head. He thinks back to every moment when Arthur was cold and stiff and very uncomfortable, and how he, Eames, took it as nerves, that really they were feeling the same things, that really Arthur felt something akin to a reluctant fondness for the forger. Perhaps it wasn't fondness at all. Perhaps Eames was just a presumptuous ass about the whole thing. So he really hates himself when he admits, "Yes, Arthur, this is about the bloody kiss."

Arthur says, "Oh for fuck's sake, Eames. I don't see why—" He pauses. " _Oh_."

Eames inhales sharply, won't meet Arthur's eyes.

"You're jealous," Arthur observes. "My god, you're actually jealous. That's so absurd, I hardly—”

Eames turns and finally meets Arthur's eyes. He tries to put everything he's feeling into that one look because maybe then Arthur will stop being so fucking dense and actually understand for once. They hold each other's gaze, and it's always a competition with them, always a challenge. There's always some stupid hurdle they have to jump, one way or another.

"I can't believe you're jealous."

Eames drops his gaze to the airport sidewalk because Arthur _is_ that fucking dense. "Sorry for being presumptuous, darling," He sneers in the nastiest way he can manage, turning away to look for a cab.

"Presumptuous? About what, us? Eames, it was for the job—"

Eames turns back around, a scowl set heavily in his face. "Oh, don't insult me, Arthur, really."

"I don't know what you want me to say," Arthur makes a very condescending sighing noise, as if the whole thing is childish and stupid and unnecessary. And that's just it, isn't it? Arthur has always categorized Eames as those things, and Eames thought it was endearment but _it's not_ , it's not. And he – he can't be here when he feels so strongly about some fucking prick in a three-piece suit, not when Arthur is looking at him like that, with condescension and apprehension and fuck-all.

"That's all I needed to hear, love," Eames says. He stalks across the tarmac into airport traffic, and Arthur doesn't follow him.

 

 

 **6.** Eames manages to remember the address to his apartment in LA, argues with the landlord for twenty minutes about his identity and judging by the look on her face, she sees how exhausted and miserable he was, takes pity on him and gives him the bloody key. Eames almost cries when she places it in his hand. He thanks her profusely and promises no trouble, and then he climbs the stairs to get very drunk on whatever he can find.

He finds three things upon entering his apartment. The first is that he hasn’t bothered to pay a single electricity bill, so he’s stuck in the dark. The second, is that all he has in the fridge is a bottle frankly fucking terrible scotch that Dom had sent him as a welcoming gift when he first bought the shitty flat. And the third is that it is very, very quiet.

So an hour later Eames is sitting on a leather couch that's never been used staring at the nearly empty bottle in his hands. He doesn't have a fucking TV or a radio or anything in the place, not that they’d turn on anyway, but still, the silence gives him plenty of time to think. About the job. About Dom. About Saito and all his money. About the bloody point man and his fucking delicious-looking lips and other stupid attributes that Eames decides to hate.

Just when he's made up his mind to stumble around the neighborhood for a liquor store, there's a knock at the door. Eames clumsily grabs his glock and loads a clip before shouting, "Mate, I should warn you, I'm a fantastic shot when I'm drunk!"

There's a pause, and then, "Eames, open the door, damn it.”

Eames almost drops his gun at the voice and stumbles to his feet. He trips over his suitcase that he hadn't bothered unpacking and swears a litany of curses before swinging open the door.

Arthur looks a wreck. His hair is loose around his face and he's got bags under his eyes and he's wearing an undershirt and _jeans_ , jeans that are hugging the fucking life out of his legs and he looks like he's about to cry and _how did he find Eames' apartment_ , but all Eames can think to ask is, "What's the time?"

"Half past one," Arthur croaks. He stops when his eyes seem to focus on the forger. "You _are_ drunk, Christ.”

"Spectacularly so," Eames mutters, and has to shove his hand in the pocket of his pants to keep himself from touching Arthur's lips.

There's another pause, and then Arthur says, "I called you.”

“Phone’s dead,” Eames says.

Arthur pulls a face. “Well, I suppose, since you won't remember this in the morning, I should say I'm sorry I kissed her."

"Who?" Eames blurts, not really listening but watching the way Arthur licks his lips.

"Fuck, Eames, Ariadne. I'm sorry I kissed Ariadne—”

"Oh."

Eames remembers now, snapping at Arthur on the tarmac and actually hating Ariadne for a split second even though none of this was her fault and now here they are, staring at each other across a threshold that Arthur doesn't seem to keen on crossing – figuratively and literally.

He can't even bring himself to be angry at the point man. Honestly all he really wants to do is get him out of those stupidly well-fitting clothes, and he's almost positive there's a mattress in the bedroom but if not the couch will do just _fine_ , and when Arthur swallows and his Adam's apple bobs Eames knows the couch will have to do because they're not even going to make it to the bedroom—

"Eames," Arthur says, his gaze steady. He licks his bottom lip one more time and tries to speak.

And Eames really can't _stand_ it anymore, all this talking. He grabs Arthur's face between his hands and slams their mouths together and the surprised noise Arthur makes really spurs him on if nothing else, and even completely smashed, Eames can tell this kiss is sloppy but it's Arthur, it's Arthur, still trying to take control of the situation by grabbing onto Eames' wrists and kissing him back just as thoroughly.

Teeth clack and Eames probably tastes fucking terrible, but Arthur is making satisfactory little noises that have the forger hauling him into the apartment by his neck.

Arthur grapples with Eames’ belt while licking into his mouth and it’s all a dream, isn’t it? Eames fumbles for the chip in his pants pocket and clutches it tight and Arthur must know, has to realize, because he stops messing with the belt buckle and instead moves his hands to Eames’ hair, running his fingers through it. He makes soothing noises against Eames’ mouth, and the forger could die right here, honestly.

“You’re a bloody idiot, darling,” Eames slurs when they break apart.

“Says the drunkard who doesn’t even have electricity,” Arthur bites back, but the straight line of his mouth is cracked into a half-smile and his hands are still in Eames’ hair.

“I hate this place,” Eames scowls, looking around the dark apartment. The only source of light is the streetlamp that shines through his window, casting the place in an eerie shadow.

“I’ll call and have the utilities turned on tomorrow,” Arthur says. He fights back a yawn that makes Eames snort.

“Don’t know if I have a mattress," He says.

“You do,” Arthur replies, and when Eames harrumphs, “Made you buy it at Ikea when you got the place.”

Eames grins, and not long after he passes out on the mattress that Arthur made sure he bought all those years ago. When he wakes up with a pounding headache, Arthur’s arm is wedged firmly underneath his head and one of his legs hooked over Eames’ waist. The sun blares through the blinds, and Arthur pulls the blankets over their heads. Eames laughs and laughs and laughs till Arthur knees him in the groin, and they fall back asleep. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
